


#chansooweek

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: ChanSoo Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-09 16:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11108442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: all chansooweek submissionsonly 3 of these are porni'm trying my best





	1. Firsts (NC-17)

**Author's Note:**

> chansoo have first time sex

Kyungsoo’s fingers tremble just the slightest as they drag up Chanyeol’s bare thigh. And he isn’t sure if it’s arousal, nerves, maybe some mix of both, but he parts his legs wider, pets his fingers through the hair falling in Kyungsoo’s dark, dazed eyes, loops around to the cradle the nape of his neck.

And Kyungsoo trembles at that, too, lips parting with the softest, softest sound. “Chanyeol,” he says, and his fingers are trembling even more heavily, but pressing more firmly into his skin. Wanting. Insistent. Burning. 

“Kyungsoo,” he responds, and Kyungsoo drops his gaze to his hands, curling now around his thighs, his thumbs teasing at the goosebumped skin around the band of Chanyeol's boxers.

And it hurts how much he wants this, aches almost as much as it does to love him. A resounding pang he feels in his _bones_.

Kyungsoo’s fingernails catch on the stretched fabric of his underwear, trembling but firm, and Chanyeol’s head tips forward to watch even more closely. 

Kyungsoo’s eyebrows are furrowed, his plush, bitten lip caught between his teeth, his eyes so achingly dark, dark, dark, and Chanyeol decides that it’s both—arousal and nerves.

Just—just exactly like him, Kyungsoo feeling overwhelmed by a maelstrom of warring desires just exactly like him.

Chanyeol’s own fingers stumble down Kyungsoo’s sides, skim his cock, too, his palm scraping over the soft, tented cotton. And Kyungsoo’s face pinches with pleasure. He pushes into the touch, grinds once, twice, thrice, before remembering himself, fanning his fingers and pressing the heel of his palm into Chanyeol’s cock.

Chanyeol moans. Kyungsoo does it again. And then again. And then again. Until it’s unbearable, so good it _hurts_ , too, until Chanyeol is whimpering and writhing and whining Kyungsoo’s name. 

“Take them off,” Kyungsoo rasps, and Chanyeol scrambles to listen, inelegant as he yanks off the fabric, tosses it somewhere to the corner of the room. Kyungsoo touches him immediately after, his fingers trembling still as they wrap around his erection, but his stroke is sure, so achingly tight and hot.

And this is far as they’ve ever really gotten. Chanyeol nude and hard and gasping and grasping and Kyungsoo nude and hard and gasping and grasping, too. Last time—last time, they’d even used their mouths and that had been _explosive_ , so, so, so hot that Chanyeol had nearly cried, but it isn’t what they’d agreed to, not for tonight. And Chanyeol grips Kyungsoo’s wrist in his fingers, shudders then guides his hand lower. Kyungsoo’s fingers skip over the underside of his cock, his perineum, stutter to a halt at the apex of his legs, the pad of his thumb catching on the trembling, sensitive, delicate skin.

A tremor—heavy and helpless—quakes through Chanyeol’s entire body. A sob lodges itself in his throat. 

And oh, he feels it in his bones. And oh, it _hurts_ how much he wants this. 

Chanyeol remembers their first date, first nervous, nervous, sweaty, sweaty handhold, the awkward bump and adjust of their first kiss, the stuttering affection of their first "I love you,” the tingle-inducing, breathtaking bumbles of his first Kyungsoo-caused orgasm, his first tingly, breathless bumbles of causing Kyungsoo’s orgasm, too, remembers all the firsts they’ve had, all the firsts he wants with him. 

_This_ , he wants _this_. And they’d already spent an entire phone conversation, a later text conversation agreeing to this. Kyungsoo, he’d _promised_. 

“Fuck me,” Chanyeol reminds him. “Please, Kyungsoo.” And Kyungsoo’s exhale is trembling, too. His nod. His lips. His fingers as they graze again, tense, testing, testing, testing. 

Chanyeol fumbles as he reaches for the lube he’d set aside on his bedside drawer. Arousal. Nerves. 

He dribbles too much of it on his fingers, spills it across the sheets, shuffles awkwardly, nervously, wantonly as he drags tacky fingers between his legs.

Chanyeol has done this to himself before, and he spreads his legs so Kyungsoo can watch, trembling, too, but proceeding with false bravado, realer bravado when Kyungsoo’s palm lands on his thigh and his eyebrow furrow, captivated. 

Kyungsoo looks like he wants this just as much, had sworn as much last night. 

Somewhere between the first and second finger, Kyungsoo peels off his boxers, tips further forward, curls a hand around himself, stroking in time with Chanyeol’s clumsy, nervous, wanton thrusts.

And by the time, Chanyeol is teasing a third finger inside, Kyungsoo’s stumbling forward to kiss along his thighs, tease his mouth higher, lingering, hot, utterly overwhelming.

The first touch of Kyungsoo's tongue is trembling, too, and Chanyeol’s head crashes back, eyes fluttering shut—but only briefly, briefly. He wants this too much to deprive himself of the sight, wrenches his eyes open, _whimpering_ as Kyungsoo's lips stretch _obscenely_ around his cock.

It’s wet and hot and perfect perfect perfect, and Kyungsoo really has a mouth that was _made_ for this. His lips are exquisitely plush as they drag over the engorged head of his cock, achingly ruddy, too as they twist to graze along his shaft. And his _tongue_.

And fuck, fuck, fuck, it isn’t any less overwhelming the second time, has Chanyeol’s heels sliding helplessly against his rumpled sheets as he fights the _cellular_ urge to thrust thrust thrust into completion. 

Not yet, not yet, not yet, this isn't how he wants his first time. 

"Kyungsoo," he gasps, fingers stumbling in their rhythm as he watches the sharp, sharp contours of Kyungsoo's hollowed cheeks. “ _Kyungsoo_."

Kyungsoo hums, swallows deeper, and _fuck_ , Chanyeol needs needs needs to fuck him, needs needs needs to be fucked. 

_Fuck_. 

Chanyeol sobs, trembles, pants, twists his fingers faster, chokes when Kyungsoo, emoldened, eases a finger beside his, too.

It’s too much, much, much, and his knee jerks, crashes into Kyungsoo’s shoulder. He pants out an apology, trembles, trembles, wants, wants, wants. Kyungsoo laughs self-depractinlgy, eases out, kisses his thigh, fingers skipping over his cock now, a cursory stroke as he watches him with dark, heavy eyes. 

“Fuck me,” Chanyeol reminds him. Because he really, really can’t afford for Kyungsoo to forget that that’s what he most wants, what they’d agreed to do tonight. 

“I’m getting to it,” Kyungsoo says. Laughing again. But it's even tighter now, slipping through gritted teeth as Chanyeol slides his palm down the concave dip of his stomach, dips his thumb into the pucker of his bellybutton, feels the taut, taut, taut tension there.

“Okay,” he exhales. “Please,” he whimpers, then implores. “Please, Kyungsoo.”

And Kyungsoo’s shoulders, fingers, lips are trembling as he kneels between Chanyeol’s parted legs, curls his fingers around Chanyeol’s thighs then winds Chanyeol’s legs around his waist. He drops a kiss to one knee then the other, lips achingly soft, voice achingly soft as he asks if he's really ready because they can stop if he isn’t, his words quavery like maybe it’s him that isn’t.

“Are you?” Chanyeol asks, clean hand reaching out to cradle his face. His palm covers from temple to jawline. And the movement is probably much too jerky and clumsy to be grounding or comforting or reassuring or what Kyungsoo might need, but Kyungsoo smiles weakly in response, presses a kiss to his palm, smiles softly into his skin, his fingers shaking around Chanyeol’s thighs as he shifts forward, drags the head of his cock over Chanyeol’s skin, hard, blunt, an aching promise. Chanyeol’s fingers tremble on Kyungsoo's skin. 

And Kyungsoo had agreed. He'd _promised_.

“I’m not the one that’s gonna take a dick up the ass,” he says. Then exhales. Shudders. His hair falls into his eyes. “Yes, I’m okay. I love you.” A deep, slow, slow swallow. "I really want you. I’m just…” He kisses Chanyeol's knee again, slightly higher, harder, underscores his point with a pointed tilt of his hips. He drags hot and hard and heavy against Chanyeol’s goosebumped, quivering skin. 

"Please," Chanyeol repeats for good measure.

And Kyungsoo nods again. Exhales again. Swallows again. Trembles again as he fumbles to slide a condom on, slathers himself with lube, shifts forward to press, _tease_ against him again. 

And oh, the blunt pressure grows, pushing, pushing, pushing, stretching, stretching, stretching. 

And oh, oh, _oh_.

The slide is slow, slow, slow, and Chanyeol breathes consciously through it, quivering with arousal as Kyungsoo eases, eases, eases until his hips are flush with Chanyeol’s ass.

Kyungsoo is so, so, so much, so big and heavy and hot and _there_ ; it aches. And he focuses on the tilt of Kyungsoo’s eyebrows, the trembling strain of his fingers, the slack-jawed, glass-eyed, awed way he watches him as he slides fully fully fully inside.

Clumsy, overwhelmed, needy, needy, Chanyeol tilts his hips up, shudders, clenches experimentally, and Kyungsoo hisses softly, his eyelashes fluttering. Chanyeol shudders once more, tilts further, clenches once more, too, and Kyungsoo's groan is devastatingly ruined, raw and frayed at the edges. And his hips jump carelessly, fuck him that much deeper inside. Chanyeol gasps at the aching, heavy, heavy, hot, hot stretch.

So much, much, much.

“Kyungsoo,” he moans. 

And Chanyeol falls in love with the way that Kyungsoo's eyebrows furrow, the way his arms tremble, the way his fingers clench, body pulses, face pinches, lips part with pleasure. The friction, it’s probably even fucking _better_ for him. 

“Feels good?” he rasps. 

Kyungsoo nods sluggishly, head lolling forward with the movement, exposing the flushed column of his quivering throat. Chanyeol is also in love with the way his throat bobs with a shaky moan, too, overwhelmed as he overwhelms him, ruined as he ruins him. 

"You have no idea." Then he swivels his hips, slow, slow, slow, testing, testing, groaning all the while. Deep and rich and hot, hot, hot. Chanyeol’s hands slide down his shoulders, along his spine, feel the tension there, too, the slow shift in his muscles as he moves. In aborted, minute little increments. 

“Move,” Chanyeol urges. “Want it,” he says. 

Kyungsoo pulls out, pushes in again, steadier now, even more achingly perfect now. 

It’s clumsy, graceless, awkward as they find their rhythm in a halting series of starts and stops, their movements punctuated with broken moans, breathless hisses, shuddery laughter, uncoordinated adjustments, whispered confessions. 

It starts slow, remains slow, slower, sloppier, than when he touches himself, focuses on himself, slower, sloppier, different than the other times he’s touched Kyungsoo, too, different like this, bodies linked in a breathless, bumbling feedback loop of sensation, response, sensation, response. Different and perfect and hot and wet and overwhelming and so much much much. The pleasure builds slow, too, thick, electric, hot, hot, hot, it tingles through his fingers, his toes, sparkles in his veins, in the periphery of his vision, slow, slow, slow, steady, steady, steady, searing, searing, searing, swelling, swelling, swelling until it's utterly staggering, nearly unbearable. 

Overcome, Chanyeol wraps his arms around Kyungsoo’s neck to tug him closer. When he kisses Kyungsoo, he can taste the helpless, perfect devastation of his moans, and Chanyeol wants, wants, wants him with his everything, loves, loves, loves him with everything, too. Wouldn't ever want this with anyone else. 

He clings even tighter to Kyungsoo as they finally, finally get it right, losing himself in the sensations, the scratch of Kyungsoo’s hair at his chest, the plush drag of his bitten lips on his collarbone, chest, throat, the clumsy scramble of sweat-slick, trembling skin against his, the litany of broken off moans, the aching graze of scrambling fingernails, clumsy lips, the dragging, dragging, dragging collisions of their hips, and oh, the delicious, sweet, sweet stretch, Chanyeol so fucking full and overwhelmed. 

His hand stumbles downwards to wrap around his cock, as his other scrapes helplessly across Kyungsoo’s straining shoulders, and Kyungsoo groans above him, nosing at his chest. His moan, his _I love you_ are also trembling, so raw, raw, raw. 

The pleasure builds, builds, builds even faster that way, until it’s a roaring fever pich beneath his skin, saturating every single frayed nerve-ending, every vibrating cell in his body, mounting mounting and mounting as it drowns him, chokes him, wrings him completely dry 

And oh, oh, oh, orgasms are different, too, even more perfect, consuming, crushing, Chanyeol clinging fast as everything goes completely white.


	2. Harmony (G)

Kyungsoo has come to find that jerking awake in the middle of the night—his heart racing as his hands grope around in the dark for his glasses—is a normal part being a parent.

Just like mopping up excess bath water spillage, just like sneaking carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, celery into grilled cheese sandwiches, just like using all their Redbox rentals on children’s films, just like occasionally going to work with oatmeal, cereal bits, toaster strudel icing on his work tie, work shirt, work pants. 

One of the occupational hazards of being Sehun’s dad, interrupted sleep. 

It doesn't make the brief blip of terror any less potent honestly, but it's familiar at least as he squints into the darkness. Sehun is on his side of the bed, standing much too close, his eyes wide, trembling with tears, bottom lip trembling, too.

“Poppa,” he says, and his hand curls around the edge of their comforter, other fist drags over his eyes as he sniffles. "Poppa,” he repeats, and this time it’s practically a sob. 

Poppa, not Daddy, Kyungsoo notes sleepily, aimed at him specifically, Sehun choosing to stand on his side of the bed even though Chanyeol’s closer to the door, because Kyungsoo has always been weaker, because Sehun already knows. Because Sehun is old enough to sleep on his own. He's so big. He shouldn't be scared of little boy things anymore. And Kyungsoo has always been the worst at reminding him. Kyungsoo, he should remind him. 

"Yeah, buddy?" he says instead.

“Poppa, the monster.”

And mind still fogged with sleep, Kyungsoo is glad he slowed down Chanyeol’s kisses, halted the intentional drag of his large, hot hands, glad he'd whispered _not tonight, babe_ , glad they're both decent, dressed as he scoots back, lifts the blankets for Sehun to climb in beside them both.

The movement makes Chanyeol stir, awaken. Much less violent, much less panicked than Kyungsoo. His hair is a mess, his cheeks creased from their pillowcase. “Hey little man,” he manages, and his voice is rough with sleep.

“Daddy,” Sehun says now, turning to face him. “I had a mightmare. I think the monster, he—he came back.”

Chanyeol had already checked under the bed, in the closet—twice, pet his fingers through his hair and sung him to sleep, too. Promised that he’d protect him. And Sehun was old enough to sleep on his own, wasn’t he? Didn’t need Daddy and Poppa to sleep with him anymore. 

“Did he?” Chanyeol asks. 

Sehun nods frantically. 

“Do you think he’ll spend the whole night there? In the house?”

“Yes. But he’s, he’s scared of you,” Sehun reminds him. “So he won’t come here.” 

Chanyeol nods solemnly, understandingly. His hair is mused, and his eyes soft and sleepy, and it makes Kyungsoo’s heart twist, ache. He thinks of all the monsters Chanyeol has banished, all the runny noses he’s wiped, all the tears he’s wiped away, the bedtime stories he’s read, the songs he’s improvised, the airplane rides he’s given, all the ways he has excelled, continues to excel at this. And Kyungsoo’s heart hurts even more, feels too big for his chest, too big for his body. Kyungsoo gropes beneath the comforter to squeeze Chanyeol's hand, and Chanyeol squeezes back hard. 

“So you have to stay here,” Chanyeol reasons. 

Sehun nods again. 

Chanyeol scoots, too, and Sehun settles beisde him with a shuddery hum, nuzzling into the pillows decisively. 

He really is too old for this, and the next time, next time they’ll have to tell him that, make him sleep in his own room. There aren't any monsters, Sehunnie, Poppa and Daddy both checked. But tonight, Kyungsoo indulges, content, even with his sharp shoulders, tiny limbs pressing into his sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not porn haha


	3. bitter/sweet (pg-13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aftercare??????

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: biting mention, rough sex mention, feeeeeeeeelings

Buzzing still, thrumming still, small and vulnerable and helpless and desperate and raw and needy still, Chanyeol swallows, tries to speak, chokes, gropes out for him in the fading sunlight instead, missing completely. And Kyungsoo slides forward with a soft, fond, fond sound, readily closing all the awful, awful distance between them, his fingers sifting through Chanyeol's hair then over his goose-bumped skin, soft, soothing, fond, assessing, loving.

They rub into the sore muscles on his wrists, tiptoe over the goosebumps on his arms, graze slowly, languidly, gently over the raised, aching skin on his throat, collarbone, chest, stomach, hips, thighs. 

_Bite me_ , Chanyeol had begged deliriously, desperately, whimpering, writhing when Kyungsoo had indulged him. _Bite me **harder**. Harder. Hurt me, Kyungsoo. Please_.

And oh the contrast between then and now, it’s fucking heady, fucking overwhelming.

Chanyeol is still buzzing, still thrumming, his body still quivering with the after effects of orgasm, consciousness still gauzy, hazy around the edges, but his love for Kyungoo, his need, it’s still sharp and pronounced. And Chanyeol’s hands stumble forward to clutch at his skin again, needing the reassurance of his body, his warmth, his love. Kyungsoo smiles against his temple, skims softly over the jut of his hipbones, curling there in the the laziest, most breathtaking possession. His murmur of approval rumbles aginst Chanyeol’s chest. He still feels so solid, so big, so strong, so, so steady and safe, and Chanyeol too small and too vulnerable and too helpless and too desperate and too raw and too weak and too shaky and too in need of protection—still.

Chanyeol swallows again, chokes again, reaches out to squeeze Kyungsoo’s hand in his. It’s dwarfed in his own, but even then—fuck, even then. “Kyungsoo," he manages. 

And Kyungsoo breathes his name, curls even tighter, even more lazily, breathtakingly possessive, his hand sliding up, up, up, down, down, down. His touches are excruciatingly tender, gentle, sweet, reassuring, perfect, soft, soft, soft, where they’d been hard, unforgiving, cruel, harsh, perfect. He’s an anchor now, a beacon, the receding waves of a violent storm, and flush with the warmth of Kyungsoo’s approval, his affection, his love, Chanyeol wants to drown in that, too. Wants to lose himself in that, too.

Kyungsoo’s lips are soft, plush as they skin along his jawline, drag over his throat. His fingers strong, steady, smooth, soft, then sticky, wet—wet wipes, Chanyeol registers dimly—as they slide across his skin. Over his ribs, his stomach, his hips, his soft cock, his thighs. 

_Mark me_ , Chanyeol had also begged, sobbing. _Come on me. Please. Need it, please_. 

Chanyeol lets his legs fall open, lets his body melt back, but squeezes Kyungsoo’s hand even tighter. Looming and handsome and steady and strong, Kyungsoo laughs softly into the crook of Chanyeol's shoulder. 

"I love you,” Kyungsoo whispers, and Chanyeol loves how how orgasm-drunk, orgasm-warm his voice sounds.

And oh, Chanyeol feels even more small and vulnerable and helpless and desperate and raw and needy. 

“You’re so beautiful," he continues, smilng when Chanyeol whimpers. "So good. So hot. So perfect. You did so, so well. Always do so, so well."

Tears blur his vision again, his body, heart on overdrive, too overwhelmed to help it, and Kyungsoo hums softly as he brushes them away, whispers kisses along his chest now. Then over his ribs, his stomach, his hips, all the places he’d hurt earlier, all the place he’s just cleaned, tended, too. Sensitized, sentimental, he sobs. 

“So, so perfect, Chanyeollie,” Kyungsoo breathes into his thigh, and Chanyeol feels like he’s drowning again, lost again, squeezing even Kyungsoo’s hand even harder, needing him again, always, always, always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's like the porn feelings w/o the porn????


	4. Sun/Moon (NC-17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chansoo spend a day having sex

Heaven, Chanyeol has decided, are entire days, afternoons, nights spent in bed just like this, naked, entangled, sore, languid, pleasantly exhausted. 

It reminds him of the first two days of their Honey Moon three years prior, the two of them emerging only when they’d run out of lube, stumbling onto the Maui beach to watch the waves kiss the sand, then to kiss, too, hold hands, ooh at the sunset, bask in the sunshine, in their love until Kyungsoo was golden, Chanyeol’s skin felt tight, stained pink.

Chanyeol loves him, wants him just as much as he had then. Maybe even more. Relishes in it now, as he had then, both of them indulging themselves for _hours_ —pausing only to order take out, relieve themselves wipe the sticky kiss of sweat, come of their skin. The hours bleed and blend into one another on mornings, days, nights like these, disappear in a haze of heated touches, shuddery moans, trembling full-bodied orgasms. 

They’re the best days, these stolen slices of heaven. And Chanyeol is in love with the way the light changes from golden pink to stark white to twilight blue as it paints across Kyungsoo’s gorgeous face, in love with the tingles that race up his spine every time Kyungsoo’s fingers skip over his skin. 

And Chanyeol doesn’t think he can come anymore, but he wants to try, letting his legs fall open and moaning in encouragement when Kyungsoo trails his kiss-swollen lips down Chanyeol’s throat, across his collarbone. Deliberate and pointed and hot and wet and perfect. 

In the fading kiss of twilight, his hair is mussed, eyes soft, lips ruddy and plush and warm in that way that makes Chanyeol’s body ache with love, tingle with half-formed desire. 

Seemingly sensing, Kyungsoo drags his knuckles down Chanyeol's stomach, inwards towards his waist, smiles when Chanyeol pushes into the touch. It’s excruciatingly soft and fond and real, his smile, the way it glitters in his dark eyes. And Chanyeol never tires of looking at his face, too handsome to bear honestly, his eyelashes heavy and dark, lips ruddy and quirked, face cast blue in the fading light. 

Chanyeol loves him, and he tells him as much, loves also the way his smile softens at the confession, wrinkles his eyes, makes them brim with so, so, so much affection. 

“Touch me,” Chanyeol says, breaking the moment, and Kyungsoo hooks his arms beneath Chanyeol’s legs, tosses him back into the rumpled, _filthy_ sheets of their mattress. 

Kyungsoo's teeth are sharp, lips soft against the tremble of Chanyeol’s stomach, fingers tight on his hips bones, holding him still. 

Chanyeol loves the way the shadows caress the sharp contours of his strained shoulders, the way his skin looks stark and pale, shadows sharp and beautiful as Kyungsoo swallows him down without further preamble. 

It feels like eternities, centuries, years, years, years by the time he pulls away, and the light as completely faded, their automatic nightlight flickered on, Chanyeol begged and begged and begged by the time that Kyungsoo emerges, breathless and laughing and perfect and beautiful even in the darkness. 

Chanyeol shivers at the dry, teasing graze of Kyungsoo’s finger along the pucker of his entrance, his legs parting in the next instant. 

“Touch me,” he repeats. “Fuck me,” he clarifies. 

Thus far, it’s been blow jobs, then thigh fucking. A pause. Then Chanyeol inside of him. Then Kyungsoo’s tongue between his legs as he’d jerked off. And Chanyeol isn’t sure sure if he can come again, but he wants Kyungsoo inside of him. And he wants to at least _try_. 

He whimpers in encouragement when Kyungsoo reaches for lube.

It’s completely dark, and he can barely make out the shadows of Kyungsoo’s face as he grinds back against the teasing curl of Kyungsoo’s fingers, wet and hot and not nearly deep or fast or rough enough but still good enough to have him choking on half-formed whimpers. 

Less heaven. 

More hell. 

_Touch me. Fuck me. Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo-yah. Kyungsoo, please_. 

Chanyeol melts completely into the sheets when Kyungsoo finally, finally, finally yields, slides inside, smooth, deep, hot, hot, hot. It punches the air of his lungs, a helpless moan past his lips, and the pleasure zips of his spine.

Kyungsoo groans against his sternum, mouthing there distractedly as he pulls out, thrusts back in.

His eyebrows kiss against Chanyeol's collarbone, breath ghosts over his skin as he pushes in steady, deep, withdraws so excruciatingly, painfully, painfully slow, and Chanyeol chokes on a sob, winds around him in helpless need, ankles knocking as they lock around his waist. 

And Chanyeol is in love, also, with the scratch of his hair against Chanyeol’s tingling, sensitized skin, the smacking collision of his hips, the soft graze of his tense stomach across Chanyeol’s cock, the slick, slick drag of his cock inside him.

But Chanyeol, he _needs_ , shoving at his shoulders, panting out a demand.

Kyungsoo lets himself be pinned, laughs when Chanyeol accidentally knees himself in the face, then moans as he drops fully on him. His hands spasm, fingernails sting along the skin of his back as they stumble along his hips. 

It’s inelegant, awkward, clumsy at first, never ever nearly as smooth and fluid and decadently _perfect_ as when Kyungsoo rides him—utterly ragged—but it’s still too fucking good, the aching stretch of Kyungsoo’s cock in his ass, the bruising force of his hands on his skin, the tremor of Kyungsoo’s response as Chanyeol grinds down _hard_ —inelegant, awkward, clumsy as it might be. 

In the pale moonlight, he catches only passing snatches of his face, the quirk of his mouth, tilt of his eyebrows, the reckless rise and fall of his heaving throat. Painfully handsome, painfully his. 

Chanyeol has to imagine, fill in the gaps, the way he’s biting his lips raw and red, the way his eyelashes are fluttering pretty and heavy at every grind, the way that sweat is beading on his forehead, sliding down the slope of his cheek, the sharp dip of his throat.

And Chanyeol tilts forward, rests on his knees to bounce even faster, harder, fuck so well that Kyungsoo’s lips are parting, his eyebrows pinching, his breath breaking into a series of staccato moans. And dazed, delirious with pleasure, he loves the glimpses he catches of Kyungsoo in the moonlight, loves the harsh desperation of his labored breathing, the rasped ruin of his voice—a wrecked, wrecking command. 

“Touch yourself. Come on, Chanyeollie.” 

Chanyeol scrambles to obey, pushing into the clumsy, fast, filthy, filthy skate of his own fist, setting an even clumsier, faster, filthier, filthier rhythm with his hips. His cock bounces against his stomach with every drop, and he loves the way that Kyungsoo’s fingers squeze around his waist, the way his breaths stutter into broken moans when Chanyeol twists his hips and rides him even faster, scrambling to anchor himself on the sweat-slick skin of Kyungsoo’s trembling thighs.

Kyungsoo’s fingers skitter up his sides, over his shoulders, wrap briefly around his throat, then mold over the nape of his neck, the base of his skull, curl around his earlobes, _tug_. 

And strung out as he is, desperate as he is, impossible as it all seem, Chanyeol's quivering and on the edge too, too soon, his body jerking, skin tight. And oh, oh, oh, he wasn’t sure he could, but maybe, maybe, maybe he can. His orgasm looms in the distance, tears up his throat, pulses through his limbs, squeezes in his lungs, spills from his lips in broken chants of . 

This is heaven. This is all he could ever want. 

Just a little bit more. He can, just a little bit more. 

“Kyungsoo,” he chants, rising and falling even more desperately. Even more inelegant. Even more clumsy and bumbling and eager and messy. Until the strain in his thighs becomes too much and please, Kyungsoo, fuck me. Please. I can’t. Just, just a little bit more. Please. 

Kyungsoo tosses him back again, his mouth stumbling on his nipples, teeth catching in an electric sting of a caress as he drives that much deeper, that much harder, that much faster. 

Chanyeol sobs into his temple, strokes himself faster, tighter, hooks the elbow of his other hand over Kyungsoo’s sweaty, straining shoulders to keep him close, breathe in his every shuddery, beautiful, beautiful exhalation. 

Kyungsoo’s own fingers stutter over his face—tender, sweaty, soft, soft—as he fucks him just just just how Chanyeol needs and wants and loves. 

Just, just a little bit more. Please. 

Kyungsoo bites down on his nipple, tugs his hair, his ear again just as he fucks forward, and Chanyeol stutters out a _wail_ as climax finaly, finally finally seizes him, sharp and hot and electric and fucking consuming. Chanyeol melting, clinging, crying out. 

Kyungsoo blankets him, cradles him close, pants harshly into his throat as he keeps, keeps, keep rutting into him, collapsing on top of him, thrusting inelegant and rough and fast with impending climax. Chanyeol whimpers into his cheekbone, tugging helplessly at his hair, cradling him close, begging him to come, too. Come just one more time for him, too. 

Kyungsoo groans, lips latching onto his sternum. “Chanyeol,” he rasps. 

“Come,” Chanyeol begs, whimpering when he does, hips stuttering to a messy, shaky stop, cock emptying in weak, weak pulses, voice breaking into a breathy moan of Chanyeol’s name. 

He crumbles with the force of it, his mouth catching on Chanyeol's chest, hot and hot and electric and sharp, and Chanyeol drags his fingers over his scalp, clenches weakly to help him through it.

Exhausted and sticky and warm and in love, Chanyeol clings to him even as he recovers, reaches out to touch his warm, soft, sated skin, taste Kyungsoo’s warm, soft sated mouth. 

In heaven, like this, with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> porn again~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prewedding jitters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~this is the most comments i've ever gotten this quickly on a fic, and i'm emotional about it. thank you~~
> 
> sorry about skipping day 5

“Brides aren’t supposed to see their husbands before the wedding,” Chanyeol says as he opens his front door, and he’s already anticipating Kyungsoo’s indignant smack, flinches anyway, then laughs as Kyungsoo pinches his arm, twisting the skin to make it hurt even more. Unrepentant, laughing, too—but tighter, maybe tenser—he shoulders his way inside Chanyeol’s apartment, toes off his shoes, follows him onto the couch.

“Scoot over,” he says, and he collapses beside him, curls into him body immediately, his head tucked under Chanyeol’s chin, arms winding around Chanyeol’s waist. _Clinging_. 

And it catches Chanyeol off guard sometimes, how _small_ he actually is, how _slight_. Chanyeol arms slide around his waist, cradle him closer, and Kyungsoo nuzzles into him.

“I’m not the bride; we’ve talked about this,” he murmurs. “If anyone is the bride, it’s you.”

Chanyeol scoffs indignantly. 

“I look too handsome in my tux,” he says. _Kyungsoo, he probably looks better, though_. “It has to be you.”

Kyungsoo snorts, inhales shakily, and Chanyeol wraps his arm tighter, presses his nose into Kyungsoo’s hair. It’s soft, smells like Chanyeol’s Moroccan argan oil shampoo. Pressed this close, he can feel the goosebumps blooming across his skin, the fine, fine tremor of his shudder. 

Against his side, Kyungsoo’s heart is racing, his breathing shuddery. Chanyeol’s fingers tiptoe up his spine, tease over the collar of his knit sweater. The pad of his thumb drags looping, crooked circles along the soft, sensitive skin of Kyungsoo's neck, waiting, waiting. Chanyeol, he’s learned over the years to be patient with Kyungsoo’s words. 

“I’m scared,” he finally confesses, shaky, soft, so soft that Chanyeol barely even hears it. So soft, it’s almost a passing, fleeting thought. “It’s not because of you,” he adds, louder, more urgent, even more shaky. "Not because—I meant it when I say that I want this. But it’s just...” He swallows, and his hand squeezes around Chanyeol’s wrist. It's shaking, too. “Just you know, I’m scared. Worried. Nervous. Want to—do this right.”

“I know,” Chanyeol says. And he does. “Me, too,” he adds.

“Why did you—” Kyungsoo trails off, scrapes his teeth against his bottom lip, squeezes Chanyeol’s hand again, swallows again. His throat bobs with the force, the skin stark and pale and soft and beautiful against Chanyeol’s dark shirt. He shuffles uncomfortably, rubs his cheek red, raw as he scrapes it against the stiff buttons on Chanyeol’s shirt. His eyelashes cast heavy shadows across his cheekbones, and even tense like, this, distressed like this, scared and worried and nervous like this, he’s still so handsome it hurts. So handsome, there’s never been a question of Chanyeol _wanting_ him. 

“Ask you to marry me?” Chanyeol asks. 

Kyungsoo’s nose crinkles, and it softens his face, makes it seem less tense, less scared or worried or nervous. “Yes. Please just—remind me?” 

Chanyeol tips forward to kiss the furrow between his eyebrows, then over his eyelid, the hollow just beneath, and Kyungsoo shivers again, his heart is still beating much too fast, his fingers still much too tight around Chanyeol’s wrist. 

“Because I love you,” Chanyeol says against his cheekbone. “Because I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he continues against his jawline." Because I want everyone to know that, too.” 

“Okay.” And Kyungsoo’s fingers loosen, body loosens, too—even if just the slightest. Chanyeol shifts, rests his lips on Kyungsoo’s forehead. And he’s so painfully, painfully aware of how small Kyungsoo is when he’s like this. “I said yes because I love you, too,” Kyungsoo confesses after a while. “Because I want to spend the rest of my life with you, too. Because I want everyone to know that, too…Because I want to try with you. Want to spend forever with you.” His lips quirk into a small half-smile, and he drags it over the collar of Chanyeol’s shirt, watches him with his dark, heavy eyes. Chanyeol’s heart clenches in his chest. “We’re cheesy,” he says. 

“We’re almost married," Chanyeol counters.

“Yeah we are.” The residual tension bleeds out of his shoulders, out of his limbs completely until he’s melting completely against Chanyeol’s side. Small like this, too. “Thank you,” breathes. “I love you,” he adds. 

Chanyeol kisses the top of his head, breathes him in, Moroccan argan oil, skin, home, and Kyungsoo shudders again. But it’s smaller, contentment not distress, apprehension. 

By this time tomorrow, they’ll be married, on a stretch limo to their honeymoon hotel suite. And Chanyeol’s gonna carry him over the threshold even if he _is_ the bride. Gonna drop him on that rose-petalled bed, kiss his husband breathless and desperate and deep and loving, fuck him breathless and desperate and deep and loving, too. Gonna love him breathless and desperate and deep and _forever_. 

“I’ll be the bride,” Chanyeol concedes against his scalp, and Kyungsoo snorts out a laugh, kisses him over the wrinkled collar of his throat, then his throat, his chin, finally, finally his mouth. 

“I told you,” he says, small still and also perfect and warm and home as he shifts on his lap, clings tight.


	6. Free Day/Porn (NC-17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yay, sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: rough sex, delayed orgasm, the subbiest pcy that you ever did see???

Chanyeol likes the sting of Kyungsoo’s palm, the rasp of his fingernails, too, the unforgiving tug of his hands in Chanyeol’s hair, likes the sharp cut of his teeth, the hard, hard aching punch of his narrow hips on Chanyeol’s ass, the devastatingly deep, deep rumble of his moans as he does. Likes it when it hurts, likes it that way best of all. 

Likes likes likes how vulnerable and small and used it makes him feel. Needs it right now, desperately, he’d already told him. 

And though they've barely started, Chanyeol's barely toed off his shoes at the entry way, barely hooked his jacket on their coat racket, barely, barely, barely loosened his tie, barely stumbled into Kyungsoo's arms, barely tasted his mouth, pet clumsily over his skin, Chanyeol's already trembling, already nearly hard, already so, so desperate, his back sagging against the picture frames they've hung up in their hallway, knocking into wedding and honey moon pictures, shots of their family, Chanyeol's nephew, Kyungsoo's niece. His fingers are already clumsy, too, bumbling as they skitter up Kyungsoo's sides, clutching at his skin. Kyungsoo’s own fingers sift through his hair—soft, tender still, a warm up into something hotter, darker, crueler. He tilts his head up, holds him upright, anchors him. 

And the way that Kyungsoo’s teeth drag against his bottom lip, the way his thigh presses between his own, insistent, deliberate just the slightest edge of meanness to it, it means that he knows, it means that he’ll Chanyeol what it wants, how it wants, what needs, how he needs. 

And oh, Chanyeol wants it, needs it, to sting, rasp, ache, wants it, needs it to _hurt_. 

 

August, the new semester, it’s always hard for him. The small college town swells suddenly with incoming students, their parents, too. And it’s a last minute scramble&mdahsalways, always, always—Chanyeol panicking as he attempts to oversee new inventory, keep their shelves stocked, secure new temporary hires for the upcoming semester, fumble around the store to make sure everything is right. Fix it when it isn’t. 

The stress, on August days, it’s always the heaviest. 

And tonight, a good hour and a half after he was supposed to clock out, as he sat in his cramped shoebox office, bent over his temperamental computer, double-triple checking their supply list, he’d sent Kyungsoo an _i need you_. 

Need it like this, too, he’d meant. Need to forget. Need to just lose myself in you. Need to hurt. 

And oh, it does. Hurt, sting, ache, but only just the slightest, only just barely—more please, fuck, _more_ —as Kyungsoo’s blunt fingernails drag across his scalp, scrape at the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck. 

Helplessly taut with tension, Chanyeol’s head crashes back against the wall, and he watches him through heavy eyelashes as Kyungsoo's fingers mold there, as those dark, wide, gorgeous eyes just stare, stare, stare. Chanyeol stumbles forward at Kyungsoo’s urging and their lips crash, collide again, dirtier now, meaner now. Chanyeol moans. And even like this, when it’s just the slightest bite—

He’s pinned as Kyungsoo presses forward, drags his mouth across his skin—hot and wet and teasing and awful on his throat, jawline, panting at his ear. 

And oh, oh, oh _fuck_. 

_Bite me_ , he wants to say. _Please, Kyungsoo. Bite me. Scratch me. Slap me. Hurt me. Fuck me. Tear me apart then put me back together. Kiss me. Touch me. Hold me better. Please, Kyungsoo. Please. I need—_

He groans as Kyungsoo rolls his hips forward, kisses then bites at the crook of his throat, in that quivering place where his neck meets his shoulder, hot and stinging and wet and disarming even over the starched fabric of the shirt that Chanyeol hadn’t bothered taking off. Insistent, commanding, hard—the way Chanyeol likes it _best_ —Kyugngsoo forces Chanyeol’s hips up, thrusts forward dirty, dirty, dirty. And with every heavy grind, Chanyeol can _feel_ it—how hard he is, how much he’s holding back—and it makes him dizzy and breathless with desire—dizzier and more breathless with desire.

Kyungsoo’s Augusts, they aren’t harder, longer, more stressful, don't leave him trembling with the need for distraction. And he’s already changed into his lounge pants, lounge shirt. The soft cotton wrinkles against Chanyeol’s fists, slides easily up Kyungsoo’s warm, soft, perfect skin. He shivers beneath his palms, and his own hands slide to Chanyeol's hips, grinding into the bone there as his teeth scrape along Chanyeol’s bottom lip again, and Chanyeol loves it, wants even more. Needs even more, he’d already _told_ him. 

Chanyeol, without being asked, drops to his knees. Fingers fisting into their shag carpet, he drinks in the regal, imperious tilt of Kyungsoo's eyebrows, the fathomless darkness in his heavy eyes, the plush, ruddy perfection of his bitten lips, the way the shadows fall across his throat as he pants down at him.

 _Fuck_.

Chanyeol's fingers fist tighter, lashes fall heavier, lips part with a shuddery moan.

He trembles when Kyungsoo's hand falls on his cheekbone, drags across his jawline, his eyelashes fluttering helplessly as the pad of Kyungsoo's thumb skims along his bottom lip. Kyungsoo slides lower, slow, slow, slow, presses briefly against his throat—just just just the slightest—before easing the pressure, cupping instead. Chanyeol arches into the featherlight caress. 

“Suck my cock?” he breathes, and Chanyeol is dizzy on how painfully soft his fingers are, how painfully hard his eyes. 

He yanks Kyungsoo’s soft, cotton pants, soft, cotton boxers off without preamble, sucks him into his mouth without preamble, too. 

Kyungsoo, he doesn’t need this like Chanyeol needs it, doesn’t tremble with his desire for it the way that Chanyeol does, and he's only half-hard when Chanyeol swallows him down. But Chanyeol, he works hard on coaxing him to full hardness, bobbing and moaning and blinking up at him in that dazed, sleepy way that always makes Kyungsoo gasp, always makes Kyungsoo touch, break. 

“Fuck my mouth,” he whispers, letting his words catch and drag on the head of Kyungsoo’s cock. 

Kyungsoo’s fingers are too clumsy, trembling, affected to be rough or cruel or taunting. And they pet over his face, cradle, hold him steady. He fucks forward, teasing, testing, then heavier, harder, hotter, hotter until Chanyeol can only taste, feel, smell, see, hear, _want_ —him.

And he gasps, chokes, tears blurring his vision, body shaking with every thrust as Kyungsoo braces himeslf on the wall, fucks, fucks, fucks. Chanyeol’s fingers scramble up his thighs—not, not arresting, not, not trying to set the pace, just just just trying to anchor himself as his mind clouds with pleasure, desire, need, need, need. 

Kyungsoo’s fingers are deliciously rough as they tug his hair back, so he can thrust forward even rougher, and _fuck_ , Chanyeol has always like it best when he’s like this, his eyes tearing, jaw falling slack, body limp as Kyungsoo takes, takes, takes what he wants, what Chanyeol needs. 

He’s painfully, painfully hard in his pants, trembling. His lips feel bruised, the corners of his mouth stretched too full, his throat raw, tongue too thick in his mouth, eyes heavy with matted tears, everything so, so, so much, too, too, too much, just exactly what he needs. 

Chanyeol is full to the bursting. Loves, loves, loves it best like this. Needs, needs, needs it most like this. Thinks deliriously that if Kyungsoo just shifted, just the slightest, whispered his foot over his cock, teased his fingers over his throat again, fucked his mouth just a little bit faster, Chanyeol could probably come. 

But Kyungsoo tugs him up abruptly instead, cursing as Chanyeol whines for him. 

And they stumble the short distance to their bedroom. Kyungsoo stumbles out of his clothes. Chanyeol tries to, too. He fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, the zipper on his pants, tugs roughly at his tie. A deep red, Kyungsoo’s _favorite_ , and his hands join Chanyeol’s, steady, calm, steadying, calming. 

Kyungsoo waits until he’s folded his clothes, laid them on their nightstand, before straddling him, pinning him into the bed. 

Kyungsoo, small as he is, pins him completely. Chanyeol is immobilized, and there's no give when Kyungsoo’s fingers wrap around his wrists. Desire swells beneath his skin, burns through his veins. 

Like this, Kyungsoo is more steel and sinew and breathtaking authority than warm, soft skin, soft-spoken, tender, patient man, and Chanyeol gets lost in the harsh beauty, dark, dark promise of his dark, dark eyes. 

Rag doll limp, he melts into the sheets, but sits up sharply when Kyungsoo’s fingers thread through his hair, tug. 

“Harder," he pants. And Kyungsoo laughs, body curling more into his, his bare thighs skating along his sides, fingers tightening as requested. Pain blooms heady and hot across his skin, laces with the debilitating desire already thrumming through his veins. His body bows towards the sting, and Kyungsoo’s laugh only deepens. 

Groping clumsily on their nightstand, missing twice and knocking over his own reading glasses, Chanyeol’s alarm clock, Kyungsoo lubes his fingers, curls them inside of himself. And Chanyeol supports his weight, whimpers out quiet, breathless, little praises as Kyungsoo fucks himself, drops searing possesive little nips on Chanyeol’s shoulder, his sternum, his throat. 

His kisses like this are that perfect, perfect, dizzy, dizzy mix of succulent and cruel, and Chanyeol whimpers, louder when he detects the filthy, slick, slick sound of Kyungsoo’s fingers. His shoulder curls forward, body trembles, and Chanyeol cradles him even closer, squeezes his shoulder, waist, ass, steadying as Kyungsoo pants about how that cock is his, isn’t it. Chanyeol’s gonna give it to him, isn’t he. As much as he wants. As hard as he wants. Gonna fuck him so good. The best, right.

Chanyeol falls back at Kyungsoo’s prompting, too. Quivers with barely, barely contained want, as Kyungsoo teases, grinds back slow, slow, slow against Chanyeol’s cock. 

His erection catches on the well of his ass, smearing against the excess lube that’s managed to leak out. Chanyeol’s eyelashes flutter, lips part at the exquisite, teasing friction. The _promise_ in it. 

Kyungsoo's face pinches with pleasure, his lips parting with these soft, beautiful, quiet, little moans, and his fingers tighten on his shoulders as he rocks and rocks and rocks. Chanyeol skims his fingers across the column of his throat, presses against his parted lips, groaning as Kyungsoo nips at his thumb, nuzzling into his caress, panting against the palm of his hand. 

He smirks when Chanyeol trembles. Then moans as he rocks back on him again. Chanyeol’s cock catches on the dancing, delicate skin, and oh, he wants him so bad it fucking _hurts_ —hurts just right. 

“Feels good?” Kyungsoo whispers, shifting again, teasing, circling again, and his voice, eyes are hard enough to be an almost taunt. Just the slightest edge of cruelty, enough to leave Chanyeol reeling. "Want it?" he continues. Like he can’t feel the pulse of Chanyel every heartbeat in his cock, see the tremor that wracks his entire body as Kyungsoo shifts atop him. 

Chanyeol nods furiously, gasps out a garbled plea, his fingers shaky as they slide down, down, down his body, stopping at his hips, squeezing. He can feel the dizzying tremble of Kyungsoo’s shudder. The exquisite way it rocks through his entire body as Kyungsoo finally, finally, finally sinks on his cock.

Kyungsoo, he’s so impossibly tight and hot and wet and _perfect_ , and Chanyeol collapses into their mattress, fingers fisting in their cotton sheets instead. Utterly overcome.

And Kyungsoo, oh Kyungsoo, he looks overcome, too, his eyes glassy and dark, his head tossing back with the force of his moan, fingers skittering along his skin. 

Chanyeol groans helplessly at the sting of Kyungsoo’s nails on his chest, the angry collsion of his hips, the unbearably perfect friciton as he rides him fast, rough right from the start. 

_Use me_ , he thinks deliriously. _Use me all up. Ruin me_. 

And Kyungsoo, as if sensing, goes faster, bracing his hands on Chanyeol's thighs instead, tipping his head back until he’s a long, lean, _gorgeous_ line of tight tremors and soft, hitching little moans. 

He sets a punshing, cruel, cruel pace, his cock bouncing, throat bobbing, dark, heavy, heavy eyelashes fluttering with every sinful, fluid drop. 

And it’s so good, it hurts. 

Tears mat Chanyeol's eyelashes, and he blinks them desperately away, struggles to swallow down his own, loud, loud moans as Kyungsoo just goes _harder_ , dirtier, more, more perfect—impossibly so. 

“Fuck me, Chanyeollie,” he rasps. “Fuck me."

Chanyeol thrusts up as Kyungsoo grinds down, hard, quick, and Kyungsoo’s hands scramble on his waist in response, anchoring, righting. His chin crashes into his shoulder, his voice breaks over this small, tight moan of Chanyeol’s name. 

And fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

“Just like that,” he manages. “Just exactly like that.” 

Chanyeol gives it to him just like that. Just exactly like that. 

Flushed and fucked out and ragged and so, so so, so achingy beautiful and overcome, Kyungsoo rides him cruel, dirty, dirty, and Chanyeol wants to wring every ounch of pleasure from his body, and then try for even more. Wants to leave him utterly wrecked with pleasure. Wishes he had the stamina to fuck him forever, leave him a rumpled up mess of sweaty, flushed limbs, ruddy, bruised lips, come-speckled skin, dark, glazed, teary eyes. Ruin him over and over and over again. 

Wants, wants, wants for Kyungsoo to be as consumed as he is, feel as frayed and helpless as he feels.

Kyungsoo, he deserves it. 

Kyungsoo is making these echoing, hitching little moans, limper, weaker, more beautiful with every drop, and Chanyeol begs, begs, begs to take over, then tosses him back into the mattress, pistoning his hips, fucking forward hard and fast, and good—the best. He gives Kyungsoo the best. 

Kyungsoo’s fingers stumble up his spine, a stinging caress before curling and tugging at his hair hard. And the ache of it, the blooming, sharp, sharp burn of his teeth on Chanyeol’s throat, the rasped ruin of his panted words— _Fuck so good. Fuck me best, Chanyeollie_ —the way he claws and clings and bites and tugs and grinds, the way his entire body keeps squeezing Chanyeol vice-tight, as if this is the best escape for him, too, fuck fuck, _fuck_ ‐

The pleasure is searing, jealous, consuming, demanding. And oh, _fuck_ he’s gonna come. Oh fuck, Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo, please, please, please—

“Please," he whimpers, pressing his nose into Kyungsoo’s chest, kissing desperately over the salty, flushed, beautiful skin. "Please, Kyungsoo. Please. "

“Close?" And his voice is too breathy to be derisive, disappointed—Chanyeol fucking him too good for that to be the case—but he knows, he fucking knows, it’s too fast, too fast, fuck, fuck _fuck_. 

“Please,” he implores, swiveling his hips, punching, punching, punching his way inside. “Please, Kyungsoo. Please.” And Kyungsoo tugs, bites, clings even harder. leaves a series of burning, stinging, sharp, sharp kisses across throat, his shoulder. 

“Wait for me,” he whispers. 

“No," he insists or sobs or pleads. “No, pease, Kyungsoo. Please just— _Kyungsoo_.” 

Orgasm always tastes sweeter when Kyungsoo comes first, feels better when he’s earned it. 

And please, Kyungsoo. _Please_

Kyungsoo’s hand stumbles down his own body, and he hisses, throws his head back with a moan as he fists himself fast, tight. His chest heaves—heavy and helpless. Chanyeol mouths at his sternum, nips, bites. 

_Please_. 

“Wait,” he coaxes or commands or begs. “Wait, wait, wait—"

Chanyeol surges forward. Fucks, fucks, fucks. Whimpers at the taste of Kyungsoo’s moan on his parted lips when he finally, finally, finally comes, the heavy, heavy tremor that echoes across his own spent body, how even that feels like a gift, even feels like being indulged, how he finally, finally finally can now, too. 

“Come on,” Kyungsoo whispers, his voice all broken and breathy and beautiful and breathtaking. “Come on, Chanyeollie.” He tilts his hips up, tilts his head back. “ _Chanyeollie_.” 

And oh, he doesn’t stand a fucking chance, climax seizing him sharp and hot and hard and violent and ringing, ringing, ringing, Chanyeol whimpering and melting and shivering and coming and coming and coming. 

Kyungsoo holds him through it, and his face, when Chanyeol can control his limbs enough to lift his head and see, is all lax and beautiful and sated and flushed with ecstasy. And when he reaches out for him now, it’s not a demand, but an appeal. As if Chanyeol could ever say no. As if Chanyeol would ever _want_ to. 

And Chanyeol likes the tender, soft, soft drag of his fingers through Chanyeol’s hair, too, the languid gorgeously exhausted way he grazes his throat, his chest, likes the kiss of his eyelashes, the whisper of his breath against his jaw, the quiet disarming rumble of his _I love you_ , the way it washes over him slow and soft and sweet and utterly overwhelming, utterly consuming. 

“I love you,” Kyungsoo breathes again, nosing up his shoulder. His breathing is still labored, sears along his sensitized, goose-bumped skin. “So much.” 

Chanyeol’s skin feels too, too tight for his body, for his heart. “I love you, too,” he says. "So much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very late, but i love chansoo and i hope this is to your liking~
> 
> thanks for joining me in this beautiful journey
> 
> #chansooislove #chansooweekislove
> 
> (also sorry about not responding to all the comments, i'll start asap. i appreciate them all and yeah thanks for reading my chansoos ;;;)


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